The Prince and His Valet
by ruthc93
Summary: They never really saw eye to eye, but in the end, no one can deny the fact that they grew up together. A Disney's The Prince and the Pauper fanfic. Mickey/Donald bromance.
1. i

**So, this is something that I wrote for disney_kink. I decided to post it here, as this is a platform I'm more familiar with. The prompt was:**

_**Fandom: uh classic disney?  
Pairing: Mickey/Donald  
Prompt: Fluffy bromance plz!**_

**If the OP happens to be reading this, you never replied to my question, so I went ahead and chose **_**The Prince and the Pauper**_** as my setting. It…kind of spun out of control. And it's more Donald centric than bromance centric, but I hope that's all right with you.**

**This is a chapter story and will be updated daily.**

**Anyways, on to the story!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. Only the story.**

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_They never really saw eye to eye, but in the end, no one can deny the fact that they grew up together._

_**The Prince and His Valet**_

**i.**

"How's the boy?"

"He's not in any physical pain, sire. But mentally…I can only hope for the best."

The King sighed. He knew it was his fault that this young lad had to suffer this fate. He could have…_should have _prevented that tragedy from happening. There were signs all over the place, whispers of the feud rising to a dangerous level, but he had ignored them and assumed that the two families would find a way to compromise, like they had always done for the past hundred years.

Now, the King faced the consequences as he stared into the eyes of the lone survivor of the Duck Family.

The young duckling shook even with the thick blankets covering him. The Captain of the Guards had been the one to find and bring him to the palace, having found him among the ruins of what used to be the Castle of Duke Duck. They tried to find out which branch of the family the duckling was from, but to their surprise, they couldn't. The King could only guess that he was the illegitimate child of Quackmore (there had been rumors, of the youngest Duke Duck secretly courting a girl of the common background against his family's wishes), and had only appeared at the castle that day perhaps by chance, or maybe Quackmore finally decided to welcome the boy and the poor maiden that was his mother into the family. Whichever it was, it was likely that the duckling had never lived even a day as a noble.

It was probably for the best that he hadn't.

The Captain reported that he found the five-year-old lad crying his throat sore for his mother in the rubbles. The boy hadn't uttered a word since.

"Do you think you can cure him?" He asked the doctor. The medical man sighed. "It depends on the boy, really. If he doesn't have any will to live on…there is only so much that I can do for him."

The King sighed again as he watched the boy before him tremble. He reached out a hand, intending to comfort the lad, but felt something rip inside to him when the duckling flinched away from him before he was within even one inch of him.

"Sire, you have to know that it's not your fault." The voice that had up to that moment stayed silent spoke up. The King gave a dry laugh. "Who are you kidding, Horace? You know full well that I could've prevented this from happening."

"Yes, but dwelling on what-ifs and what-could-have-been will never help the situation we have at hand. It's best if you can forgive yourself enough to help this boy. Sire." The "sire" was added almost as an afterthought. The King looked at the man. Horace was young, but he was wise beyond his years. The King was glad that he had been appointed as the advisor and instructor to the Prince. He chuckled. "Always looking at the bigger picture, are we?"

"It is my duty, sire."

The King smiled at that. "Thank you, Horace."

Then he knelt beside the bed where the boy lay, and ignored the twinge of hurt when the duckling flinched away from him again. "Hello, my fine lad. How are we doing today?"

The boy whimpered in response.

"Can you tell me your name, son?" The King tried again, knowing that he had to be patient. When the boy still didn't answer, he smiled. "You don't have to be shy. Here, what about this? We'll trade! I'll give you my name, and you'll tell me yours, alright?"

It took a while, but the boy slowly nodded. The King smiled brightly. "My name is Henry. Can I have your name?"

"D-d-donald." The duckling finally answered with his voice shaking and raspy. Then he cleared his throat and tried again. "My name is Donald Duck."

"Well, Donald, I'm terribly sorry for what happened to you." The King said softly. He almost regretted saying it, as the duckling immediately turned frigid with trembles again. He quickly pulled Donald into an embraced. "But you're safe now, and I promise you, I'll never let something like that happen to you again. Not ever."

He felt the boy's tense muscles relax against him, and slowly, a sob escaped the lad's throat.

The King smiled gently and rubbed smooth circles into the boy's back. "There, there. It's alright now. Everything's going to be fine. Just let it out."

He was sure that Horace was watching the scene with a smile. It's not every day that you see a king comforting a young commoner who was bawling into his shoulder. Though he knew that, one way or another, he'll end up letting the young advisor taking care of the boy, but he found himself not disliking the notion all that much. Donald needed love and care, and the King knew Horace will at least be able to bring him the latter.

_**To be continued…**_

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**So this is it for now. It's more of a prologue than anything, and it's my take on how Donald got into the castle. And if you haven't noticed, I took the liberty to tweak with their ages a little here.**

**The Prince will appear in the next chapter.**

**~ruth~**


	2. ii

**And here's chapter two. I really like this chapter, for some reason. X3**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the characters.**

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_**The Prince and His Valet**_

**ii.**

"Where are we going?"

Horace cringed at the sound of the duckling's voice. That day, they had assumed that Donald's voice was the result of crying too much, and would heal over time. But as time wore on, it became clear that either all that crying had permanently damaged Donald's vocal cords, or that was how Donald's voice sounded like in the first place. The advisor strongly believed it to be the latter.

Another thing that they had discovered (the hard way) was the young duck's uncontrollable temper tantrums, to which His Majesty actually _laughed_ at and told the whole court that "that was exactly how Quackmore used to be!" But that's another story. And Horace didn't really want to think about it right now.

"We are going to meet your new employer." He answered evenly.

"Employer? Aren't I too young to work?" Well. Say whatever you want, but Donald is proving to be a lot brighter than others are willing to give him credit for.

"Normally, yes. But you've been living in the palace for three years now, and we can't have other people think you're freeloading off His Majesty's good will."

"Oh," the duckling replied, "Does that mean that I'll start working for Henry now?"

"Donald." Horace chided in a warning tone. Donald winced at his own mistake and quickly corrected himself. "I mean…does that mean I'll start working for His Majesty now?"

Horace sighed. Maybe His Majesty should have thought it through before telling the duckling his name. "Close, but not quite." He answered. He found himself chuckling when Donald twisted his head up to look at him in confusion. "You'll be working for the Prince as his valet."

The duckling's eyes widened in surprise. There were no more questions as Horace led them through the halls towards the Prince's quarters. The advisor found the silence a bit unsettling, and decided to fill it up with instructions. "Now, the young sire is one year older than you, and His Majesty had decided it will do you both good for you to work under him. 'It'll be good for them to be around someone close to their age' were his exact words. But I want you to remember, even if he is only a year older than you, he is still royalty, and I want you to know your place. All the etiquettes that I had taught you these years are to be put to use. And lastly, I _need_ you to control your temper, understand?"

"Yes, sir."

Horace knew the reply was serious and sincere, as if it had been in any other case, Donald would've answered with "Yes, Horace."

Before long, they arrived at the doors of the Prince's private quarters.

"Well then, I'll go in first to announce your arrival. You'll know when to come in." And with that, he opened the doors to greet the Prince.

Only to have a pail of water cascade down on him and the pail itself to lodge around his head. He yelped and lost his balance, falling to the ground on his behind. Inwardly, he groaned. He really should've seen that coming. But now, he couldn't see anything with the pail capsizing him, and all he could hear was the Prince's laughter and Donald's concerned yells of his name.

As he worked on getting the pail off his head, he was aware that the two boys had begun to converse.

"Hey, what do you think you're doing? You could've hurt Horace!" Hmm. He wasn't aware that Donald was _that_ concerned for him. It was a bit…touching.

"Aw, lighten up, will you? It's all just a bit of fun." And that was the Prince. Young, brilliant, and a royal pain.

"Fun? _Fun?_ Why you….I'll show you _fun_!" Well, so much for controlling his temper.

Horace got the pail off his head just in time to grab Donald before he could charge at the Prince. "Donald. It's fine. Let it go."

"But he-!"

"_Donald_."

The duckling scowled, but still, thankfully, stayed put. Horace regained his composure (as much as he can with his clothes dripping wet) and faced the other source of his growing headache right now. "As for you, sire," He began, and inwardly groaned again when the young mouse stared up at him with innocent eyes, "will be happy to know that this will be reported to your father."

"Aw, shucks." The Prince laughed. "I'm sure he'll get a great laugh out of it." Horace fought the urge to slap himself on the face, but the Prince was most likely right. He decided to ignore the comment altogether and move on to get what they had come for in the first place over with. "Sire, this is the boy who will serve as your valet from this day on." He said as he pushed the duckling forward. "Donald, this is Prince Michael, whom you will be serving."

The Prince stared. Donald glared. Horace sighed inwardly with exasperation and asked the imaginary King in his head why he _ever_ thought it'll be a great idea to let the two boys meet each other. At all.

Horace tightened his grip on the duckling's shoulder, and was rewarded with one of Donald's famous glares. The advisor only returned it with a stern look.

"_Fine_." The young duck growled and marched forward to the Prince, who was looking at them with a bored expression. Donald took one curt bow, "My name is Donald Duck, and I'll be _happy_ to serve under you, Your _Highness._"

Horace sighed inwardly (yet again). He was glad that this was dealt with, and now he could finally go change out of these wet garments. But as he turned, he missed seeing the Prince's eyes widen with comprehension and Donald's smirk at the invisible jibe he had sent the Prince. The Prince narrowed his eyes at the young duck, and the duckling glared back.

Indeed, behind his back, there fueled the beginnings of a war.

_**To be continued…**_

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**I had fun with Horace. He's a really interesting character to write, especially in this setting. And yes, it is my headcanon that Horace raised Donald. I will delve more deeply into their relationship later in the story as well.**

**It looks like the Prince and Donald didn't get off to a very good start. :/**

**Until next time!**

**~ruth~**


	3. iii - part 1

**Chapter 3 is here!**

**I am going through these as time periods. Each period is a time during Donald and the Prince's lives, which will eventually lead to the contents of the movie and beyond. Periods that are too long are cut into parts. This chapter is Part 1 of Period 3.**

**I hope that clears up something chapter confusion that I feel are going to come.**

**Enjoy!**

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_**The Prince and His Valet**_

**iii. – part 1**

Donald, now eleven, growled in anger as he stormed out of the lecture hall. He was _always_ getting into trouble because of that _stupid Prince_. And it was getting harder every day. At first, they had launched a prank war that nearly tore the palace apart (and considering how big the palace was, that's pretty impressive). But in the aftermath, they _both _got scolded for a good measure (him by Horace and His Highness by His Majesty).

After that, His Highness found a way to make his life even more miserable. The Prince still played pranks, but now he somehow found a way to pin all the blame on _him_. Even worse, the Prince never played a prank on the duckling, making him the only prank-free inhabitant of the palace…and the most suspicious one as well. And when they started pointing fingers, Donald found that while it may seem that the Prince and he had the same number of fingers, it was clearly not the case as His Highness's one finger could easily blow back all eight of his. And no one ever suspected anything.

No, wait, he was pretty sure that Horace knew. But given that kill-joy's personality, he was certain that the instructor didn't say anything just to mess with him.

It was now a vicious cycle. And they both knew it. The Prince would always play pranks that ends with all the evidence pointed towards Donald. Donald would always fight back. The Prince would then evoke his authority as the prince (of all the other times he could have evoked it) to make sure other people saw Donald fighting back, only then it would seem to them that Donald was leading on his prank tirade, this time with the Prince as the target. Which would lead to Donald being in more trouble than he already was, and the duckling quickly found out that shouting "But he started it!" _never_ worked (hadn't stopped him from trying, though; you never know, someone might actually _listen_ to him for once). Then the palace would settle down into a short period of peace as the Prince laughed at his own handiwork. Until he gets bored, then the whole cycle starts all over again.

It wasn't that Donald hated the Prince. He couldn't, not after everything Henry (His Majesty will always be called Henry in his head, and no, he doesn't care what Horace says) had done for him. But sometimes, he just wished that His Highness would be…nicer, for lack of a better word.

It was also the reason Donald had chosen to call him "Your Highness" above all the other titles available. Yes, Donald could admit that the Prince was in a higher social status than him. He was the _prince_, for heaven's sake. But that was _all_ he would admit. His Highness would never hear the words "Your Majesty" or "Your Grace" coming out of his bill when he's addressing him. Until the day the Prince did something to earn him those titles, it was going to be "Your Highness" all the way.

Of course, it was also much more satisfying to add a sarcastic layer to it when Donald was at least half a head taller than His "Highness".

Before Donald knew it, he was in the Prince's quarters. Idly, he pondered the idea to do something to the bed for payback, but then got rid of the thought. He was in enough trouble already. He didn't need to give His Highness another reason to make his life miserable. Besides, seeing the Prince bemoaning his studies and duties was enough satisfaction.

He then went on to dutifully do his part as the Prince's valet, cleaning the wardrobe that was truly too big for just one person. The everyday duties had a way of calming him, and it had occurred to Donald that maybe he should be worried about that. But then again, if this was the only thing to calm him down, he wasn't about to give it up.

As he absentmindedly organized the newly folded clothes and placed them to where they belonged, he missed the small stool that was used to reach the higher drawers of the wardrobe (and the ladder that led to the even higher drawers). He wasn't particularly surprised when he tripped over the stool, sending the neatly folded clothes all over the place. Really, the only thought in his mind at the moment was _not again_.

Donald now strongly believed that he must have used up all his good luck to survive the Duck Massacre (as the tragedy that befell the Duck Family had come to be known as), and now karma was back to make sure he paid for every ounce of it.

Groaning, he sat up from the pile of clothes that had buried him, took one look around him, and felt the anger rise up in him again.

"So, mess with _me_, will ya?" He growled at the offending stool before kicking it clean across the wardrobe. The stool sailed towards the wall, hit the padded walls, angled up towards the upper drawers, angled up _again_ towards the ceiling, and then came shooting back down towards Donald.

The duckling let out a quack and ducked down to avoid the flying stool. He did. Just barely. When he heard the stool make impact with the floor behind him, he let out a sigh in relief.

Meanwhile, the upper drawers that the stool had hit shook in the wake of the impact. Donald was given one chance to look up at the rumbling sound before the drawers burst open and emptied its contents on him. His terrified quack was muffled by the avalanche of clothes.

Again, the duckling angrily crawled out from under the clothes. He was growling with a steady note now, and was just about to give in to one of his infamous rage fits when something fell onto his head.

"_Ow_!" Okay, that did _not _feel like a piece of clothing.

Donald nursed the bump on his head as he glared up too see what had fallen, ready to launch it into next Tuesday. But then, as his eyes found the object, feelings of rage was quickly replaced by an emotion that hadn't visited him in quite a while now.

Curiosity.

_**To be continued…**_

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**Cliffhanger! Well, sort of. XD**

**This was also interesting to write. Writing Donald is quite fun, though I worry that if I've gotten him in character or not. Letting him say his usual catchphrases is pure joy.**

**A deeper look into Donald's relationship with the Prince, which isn't looking very good, I'd say.**

**Until next time.**

**~ruth~**


	4. iii - part 2

**Before we began anything, Happy Birthday to Donald Duck! Thank you for being with us these 79 years!**

**This chapter was written in celebration of the event mentioned above. Enjoy! X3**

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_**The Prince and His Valet**_

**iii. – part 2**

The object in question was a violet velvet box, tied shut with a red silk ribbon. There was no bow, just a simple knot that looked hastily tied. Donald picked it up and gave it a gentle shake, and was rewarded with a thumping sound that said that there was definitely something in there. He turned the box over and around to examine it, and found a plain white envelope tucked beneath the ribbon.

_Wait a minute, is this-?_

"So, I see you've found it."

Donald almost jumped in surprise. Instead, he just glanced back at the Prince standing in the entrance of the wardrobe. The young prince was glancing around the room. "And made a pretty big mess in finding it, too."

Donald scowled. "It's only because your wardrobe is way too enormous for a mouse your size, Your _Highness_."

"Now, now, Donald. Wouldn't want Horace to hear that, would you? He's only in the other wing of the palace."

Donald glared, but otherwise stayed silent. He didn't want to deal with the Prince right now. The smart thing to do right now would be to ignore the Prince completely, place the box down, and walk out-

"Well then, since you found it, you know what to do with it. Off you go, now."

_Wait, what?_

His confusion must been all over his face because His Highness frowned. "Go on. I don't think you have the time stare blankly into space right now." And with that, the Prince turned to pick up the clothes that were still on the floor.

"Uh…Your Highness?" Donald felt more confused than ever. He didn't remember the Prince ever telling him about any present to give to anyone. "Who do I give this to?"

To his surprise, the Prince turned back to _glare_ at him. "Don't make me say it, you good-for-nothing duck. You know fully well to whom this box goes!"

Donald glared back. "Well, I'm sorry, Your _Highness_, for not being as up to date with your love life as you are. And besides, whichever girl that you're sending this to should be receiving it from your own hands, not from me-"

"_It's for you, you bumbling fool!_"

…_What?!_

Donald stared blankly at the Prince, who was now trying to hide his red face (from embarrassment or anger, the duck would never know). There was a period of awkward silence, as Donald tried to process that sentence to make sure that no, he wasn't hearing things, and as the Prince tried to look at everything in the wardrobe _but_ his valet. Finally, the duckling pointed a finger towards himself, "Uh…for_ me_?"

"_Yes_," the Prince grounded out through gritted teeth, "For your, you know, your _birthday_."

To be honest, the first thought that passed through Donald's mind was _"That was today?"_ He quickly did a mental check on his calendar, and found that today was indeed the ninth of June. He'd forgotten all about it. What's more, the last time he checked, he hadn't told _anyone_ about the date of his birth.

Another moment of silence passed, with Donald trying to figure out what to do. At last, he said the first thing that came to mind, "But…how-?"

"I asked Horace." His Highness cut him off before he could finish the question. "He had to dig around for a bit, but we managed to find out. So there. Happy birthday."

If there was an award for Most Awkward Silences in Ten Minutes, Donald was sure he and the Prince would win big time.

"A-anyway, if you don't have anything better to do, you'd best get going. Wouldn't want Horace to think you were slacking off now, would we?" The Prince muttered as he pushed Donald towards the doors to the hallway. The duckling, still too dumbstruck to do anything, let himself be pushed. Once he went through the door, the Prince began talking again. "Now then, so long! Go open that present whenever you feel like it, I don't really care if you ever do. Go take care of your duties, and I'll let you know when I need you. Good bye!" And with that, the door shut behind the valet.

Donald was still staring at the box in his hands. Gingerly he began picking at the knot, letting his hands go on autopilot. It took a while, but he was able to untie the knot (without tying his own hand with the ribbon; impressive), hold onto the envelope, and open the lid of the velvet box to see inside.

He frowned when he saw a necklace staring back at him.

_A necklace? But why would-_ The thought stopped midsentence when he realized that the round, silver-casted and crystal-studded center piece could be opened up. So it was a locket. He wondered what image His Highness and Horace had placed in there even as he undid the metal clasp to see.

Donald let out a gasp, and then a choke. A surge of emotion washed through him as he tried to steady his trembling hands, only to fail as he continued to stare at the image.

_Mother_…

He had almost forgotten how she looked like. This was a gift that valued more than his most prized possessions (not that he had any). As he ran his thumb over the small portrait, he remembered the white envelope that was still in his other hand. Swiftly, he broke the seal and took out its contents.

It was a simple piece of lambskin, folded so that it would fit in the envelope. The young duck quickly read what was written on it.

_Donald,_

_Happy Birthday. Horace managed to find an old drawing of your mother when he was looking through the possessions they had managed to salvage from your father's castle. We had Benjamin redraw it. So thank Horace when you have the chance._

It wasn't signed, but Donald could recognize that graceful and educated handwriting anywhere. He had seen it many times before when the Prince was made to practice during his studies.

He stared at it for a few more seconds, and then he let out a small laugh and pulled the locket close to his heart. Maybe His Highness wasn't as insufferable as he had thought.

Then the door opened behind him, making him lose his balance and fall back with a startled quack. He stared up at His Highness's annoyed face. "By the way, Donald, _you still need to clean up that mess you made in the wardrobe_!" The Prince all but shouted.

Then again, maybe Donald's being too generous with the compliments.

_**To be continued…**_

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**This chapter was originally part of the previous chapter, but it got way to long, so I chopped it in half. This may happen quite frequently with the following chapters as well. :/**

**I love writing their love/hate relationship, and I had taken full advantage of the fact that they are both still kids in this story. 12- and 11-year-olds are very fun to write. And I really liked writing the Prince, too. He's like the earlier versions of Mickey, when he wasn't tied down by being an icon and had a more mischievous side to him.**

**So it seems like the Prince does care after all. Where will their relationship go now?**

**~ruth~**


	5. iv - part 1

**I completely and utterly forgot to post this chapter yesterday. I'm so sorry.*fail***

**Now we enter into a time period that I personally really like. This period will deal with some of the things that were mentioned in previous chapters.**

**Enjoy!**

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_**The Prince and His Valet**_

**iv. – part 1**

"Your Highness! Your Highness, _where are you?_" Donald shouted as he ran through the hallway. They were under attack. They were _under attack_. An attack led by traitors, no less. And he hadn't been able to find the Prince _anywhere_. This was not good. This was not good _at all_.

He and Horace had been in Henry's private quarters, attending to his cold, when the attack hit. It was led by a guard named Mortimer, and it started with the castle wall. Somehow, the traitors had been able to create a hole in the wall, breaking the palace's strongest defense. The Captain and the guards had attended to the matter immediately, but they had been too late to stop the first wave of attackers from flooding in. Now, the Captain and the guards were keeping the rest of the enemy at bay, which meant the inhabitants of the palace were left to fend for themselves against the leading group of the assault.

To sum up, _not good_.

Horace, opting to stay with the still under-the-weather King, had told Donald to find the Prince immediately. If Donald's interpretation of the word "immediately" was anything close to its real meaning, the teenage duck knew that he was doing a lousy job.

It also didn't help that all this was frighteningly familiar. He knew this feeling. He knew this fear. And the fear grew tenfold when all he could think about was what was going to happen if they don't stop this, _now_.

He couldn't let that happen again. Ten years was not long enough for there to be another tragedy like the Duck Massacre. Heck, an _eternity_ wouldn't be enough. What happened to him a decade ago should not happen to anyone else. This was something he had decided the moment he had stopped crying over the incident.

"Your Highness!" He shouted again, using the title that had started out as an insult, but grew to be more of a habit over the years. It was times like this that he wished the palace wasn't so freakishly _big_.

The sword in his hand weighed heavily against his sprint. He had met and took care of several lackeys by this point. Inwardly, he thanked God for the swordsmanship lessons that Horace had insisted he take and the sparring sessions he had had with the Prince (though he couldn't laugh at the irony that _Mortimer_ was the one that had overlooked their lessons). Now, if only he could make sure he still _had_ a sparring partner.

"Your High-!" His stopped himself mid-shout when he heard a familiar voice cry out. Judging that it came from the dance hall, he quickly made his way to the enormous doors and peeked in.

_Bingo_. In the dance hall, he could see His Highness, sword in hand, struggling to stand up near to the wall, where at least seven rogue guards were surrounding him. Donald sneaked in and hid behind one of the many pillars in the room, the one closest to the group. He did a quick scan, and was both annoyed and a bit relieved when he didn't see Mortimer among them.

_Alright. Here goes nothing_. He thought as he used the element of surprise to his advantage. He charged at the nearest target, succeeding in knocking him down, and was able to take out a second one as well before the group realized what had happened. He quickly spun around and leaned back into the Prince's back, half-supporting the teenage mouse and half-steadying himself. Even without looking, he knew there was a smirk on His Highness' face.

"About time you came along. What took you so long?" The Prince asked with a laugh.

"Ah, shut up." He replied with a scowl. "Be glad that I came at all."

The Prince chuckled. "Well then," he said, waving his sword in the air a couple times to get into a stance he was comfortable with, "shall we settle this?" And as they stood back to back, facing the five remaining enemies circling them, Donald couldn't help but smile.

The standoff lasted about two more seconds, and then the guard standing to Donald's left charged at the duck. Donald dodged the oncoming blade, but blocked it before it could hit the Prince. Using the moment the guard stood still to take in the impact of metal against metal, the Prince thrust the butt of the sword into the back of the head of the guard. The guard dropped to the ground with a groan.

This set off the official battle, as the remaining four guards all charged at them. The duo moved quickly, blocking and slashing and turning. They knew each other's moves by heart, having sparred too many times to not to. They played off each other in perfect synchronicity, making up for the other's flaws with fluid motion. There were no openings and no weak points. They were unstoppable.

In no time, all four guards were on the floor, and the two teens stood back to admire their work, both panting a bit. It was the Prince who finally broke the silence, letting out a hearty laugh. "Not too shabby, if I do say so myself."

Donald laughed as well, and opened his bill to reply. But before he could get even one syllable out, something whizzed by him, snagged the Prince's shirt, and pinned him to the wall.

Both boys only had the time to make out the knife holding the Prince in place before more followed, all narrowly missing Donald and restricting the Prince's movements. The Prince struggled against the knives holding him in place, but to no avail. Donald quickly moved to help his prince, but was stopped in his tracks by another small blade.

"Now, now, Donald. Don't want you to spoil all the fun now, do we?" the familiar voice of their swordsmanship mentor said.

"Mortimer!" The teenage duck growled.

_**To be continued…**_

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**For any Mortimer fans out there, I'm terribly sorry that I made him the villain here. I needed a bad guy, but did want to throw in any OCs, so he was the next best choice as Pete is already taken.**

**I really enjoyed writing the interaction between the Prince and Donald. I hope that I've gotten both of them in character. This is also my first time writing anything remotely resembling a fight scene, so I hope that didn't turn out too bad. Let me know if you see a point I need improving on.**

**The final boss comes out! What will the Prince and Donald do now?**

**~ruth~**


	6. iv - part 2

**On to part two! I'd like to think that things are beginning to get interesting.**

**Please enjoy reading!**

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_**The Prince and His Valet**_

**iv. – part 2**

"Mortimer!" The teenage duck growled. The tall mouse only chuckled darkly, with his sword resting on his shoulder. "Really, Donald, is that any way to treat your elder?"

"I'll show _you_ how I treat the _traitors_, you back-stabbing little-" Donald's speech trailed off into unintelligible quacks, which was just as well. Mortimer tsked and shook his head. "Such language! What would Instructor Horace say?"

His blood ran cold at what the treacherous mouse was implying, and immediately a question floated up in his mind. But the Prince beat him to voicing it. "What did you do to him?"

"Nothing that I need to report to you." The taller mouse sneered. Donald felt the familiar surge of rage rise in him as his hand tightened around his sword. Without warning, he charged towards the traitor, arms pulling the sword back for a swing, but the mouse was ready. He blocked the blow with relative ease, and used the duck's momentum to send the teen hurling back the way he came.

Donald landed at the Prince's feet, the royalty's concerned voice barely reaching him. He growled in anger and didn't even bother to pick himself up properly before launching himself at Mortimer again. His ex-mentor only matched his attack with a graceful block (Donald had seen him demonstrate this move countless times before), again making the young duck land on his tail feathers.

This only angered Donald more and fueled his desire to _shred the mouse to pieces_. He got up again and again, charging at the traitor each time with renewed strength. But each time, Mortimer was able to deflect his attacks and send him flying.

Finally, as he was delivered to the Prince's feet yet again, Donald found himself out of breath and panting heavily as he struggled to stand. His movements ceased, however, when the offending mouse pointed the blade at his throat. Said mouse looked down on him degradingly, "Really, Donald, is that all you have? I thought that I had taught you better than that."

Donald just scowled, still haven't recovered enough for a comeback. He could hear the Prince still struggling to free himself behind him, and part of him wondered if he should be worried that Mortimer seemed much more interested in him than the royalty he was supposed to overthrow. It didn't make sense. If he was the one planning this rebellion, he would've slain the Prince by now. Was Mortimer's goal really to overthrow the monarchy?

"Why are you doing this?" He heard himself asking before realizing it. Mortimer just smiled coldly. "Simple, my dear lad. I want power, and the King and his son are in the way of me getting that power. That doesn't leave me much of a choice, does it?"

Donald glared, willing his vision to vaporize the tall mouse then and there. As he thought about all the things he'd like to do to that treacherous male, he was completely caught off guard by the question that followed. "Say, Donald, why don't you join me?"

"_What?!_" That, surprisingly, had come from the Prince. "Are you _completely mad_? Donald would never-" He was stopped short when another knife flew in his direction, embedding itself in the wall only an inch away from his throat. "_Silence_, you insolent fool. I was not addressing you." The taller mouse said darkly. Turning his attention back to the mallard, he continued.

"I've been watching you closely, young lad. I can see that we share a mutual dislike towards the royal family. I know you've been holding in those feelings of hatred, particularly the ones toward the Prince. I've seen how he treats you unfairly, how he often makes you the scapegoat for many of his own schemes. Even with all the work you do for him, he never really appreciated you. Has he ever thanked you or showed you gratitude for the endless torment you go through serving him? Has he ever given you credit where it's do? You don't need to follow him anymore, lad. Come work under me, and I'll make sure all your work is rightfully rewarded." Mortimer pulled back the blade and held out his hand. A smile that held no humor settled on his face. "What do you say, Donald?"

There was a moment of silence as the two mice awaited the teenage mallard's reply, one with anxiety and the other with triumph. The focus of the group had his head slightly lowered, making it hard to tell his expression. But once he did look up, he had a look of annoyance on his face. "Two things." He told the taller mouse. "One, thanks for letting me know that _someone_ in this blasted palace actually knew that it wasn't me who pulled those pranks. And two, it's true that serving His Highness can be a pain in the butt, and he is by far not the most generous master one can have, _but_…" There was no warning as he swung his sword at the older male, making the mouse jump back to avoid the blade.

Donald stood up, glaring hard at the traitor. He stood firmly in front of the Prince, sword posed to strike. "My loyalty lies with the King and the Prince. And _nothing_ you say is ever going to change that!"

Behind him, the Prince was staring wide-eyed at him. He gave a small, relieved smile. "Donald…"

"When this is over, you're going to pretend you never heard that." The duck muttered quietly. The teenage mouse chuckled. "Right. Of course."

Donald was suddenly glad that he had his back to the Prince, because he really didn't want His Highness to see how wide he was smiling. Shifting his attention back to the problem at hand, he growled again at the older mouse.

Mortimer was looking at him with an amused smile that was _unnerving_. He mentally readied himself for whatever was coming next. Later, when he looked back to this moment, he would realize that nothing would've prepared him for what was about to transpire.

"Really, Donald. I'm impressed." Mortimer laughed coldly as his swung the sword a couple of times in the air. "You've really come a long way from that whimpering child when I first met you."

Donald blinked. He didn't hesitate to let the confusion show on his face. "What are you talking about?" He pressed. "We first met when I was ten. And if I remember correctly, I kicked you in the shin."

"Oh, no. My first encounter with you was _much_ earlier than that." The mouse said, taking a step closer towards the mallard. Donald tensed, but the confusion was still there. _What was he saying?_

"But I wouldn't be surprised if you didn't remember. You were so young then, and I wasn't myself." The older mouse steadily stepped closer, as if intending to intimidate him. Donald stood his ground, but couldn't stop the foreboding feeling that something was very wrong. He held his sword high, trying to be ready for any sudden movements. "Then again…" Mortimer reached into his armor, and Donald tensed, expecting him to throw another knife, "…maybe _this_ will help."

Donald took one look at the object the traitor held in his hand and felt his world implode.

_**To be continued…**_

* * *

**Another cliffhanger! Be sure to check in tomorrow for more!**

**Writing this chapter was also loads of fun! If you want to question why he didn't just free the Prince and take on Mortimer together, you must remember that Donald's pretty much control by his rage in this chapter. And we all know he doesn't take the best course of action when enraged. Plus, I enjoyed giving Donald the full action spotlight here. XD**

**I also enjoyed letting Donald **(confess his love)** declare his loyalty toward the Prince. X3**

**What is it that Mortimer had that made Donald react like that?**

**~ruth~**


	7. iv - part 3

**The next chapter is here!**

**Warning: This chapter contains some not-so-cartoon violence. This is something that might have pushed this story to T-rated, but I didn't want this chapter to be the sole reason for changing the rating of the entire story. So I'm making this announcement here. Only this chapter will contain things that are probably not suited for K+, but it's this chapter only (and maybe a little bit of the next chapter).**

**With that said, I hope you'll enjoy reading!**

* * *

_**The Prince and His Valet**_

**iv. – part 3**

His sword clattered to the floor as he looked at the detailed porcelain mask held before him, too shocked to even gasp. Images that had haunted his dreams during his first three years in the palace came rushing back to him. He fell to his knees, seeing things that weren't there.

_Flashes of metal against metal._

_A hand gripping his own small one tightly._

_Running. Running._

_Blue. Blue and white mask._

_Mask with flowers and swirling lines and leaves. Splattered with red._

_Red. Red everywhere._

_Red red red red red…_

_White. Red on white. Feathery white._

"_Mother!"_

"Donald, watch out!"

He heard the shout and pulled back on reflex. The blade that had meant to severe his head now only glazed his arm. He cried out in pain and pressed a hand on the new wound, coming completely back to reality. He looked up at his attacker, and felt nothing but _fear_ when he saw the mask. Mortimer laughed behind it, clearing enjoying every moment of this.

"I see you finally remember now, my lad!" He crooned. He strode up to the trembling duck and kicked him hard in the stomach, sending him flying into the pillar. Donald felt the wind knock out of him and something _break_ inside him upon impact. Gravity then pulled him to the floor coughing and wheezing. He collapsed on his stomach, feathers flying. He could taste blood in his bill.

"Why yes!" Mortimer sang. He again advanced towards the mallard. Donald tried to scramble away, but it hurt too much to move. He could do nothing as he watched the boots come closer and closer, and couldn't help but scream when the last step landed hard on his left hand. "_I_ was the one hired to massacre the Duck Family!"

The evil man then leaned down, shifting more of his weight to the foot on Donald's hand. Donald whimpered and choked in pain as the already fractured bones grinded against his muscles. Through the pain-filled haze, he felt Mortimer's hot breath as the mouse whispered to his earhole. "_I was the one who killed you mother_."

Donald choked again, this time unrelated to the physical agony he was in. There was nothing he could do to fight the gut-wrenching _fear_ he was feeling right now. He had thought he had gotten over the Duck Massacre and the effects it had on him, but apparently he was wrong. All he saw was _mask, mask, mask, mask, bad, pain, __**red**_. _**Red**__ was everywhere._ And it was so different from the red he usually saw when enraged. That red was powerful. It was vibrant. It was _welcoming_. But _this_ red was _foreboding_. It was dark and hollow and _terrorizing_. All he knew was that he needed to _run, run, __**run**_, but his feet wouldn't listen to him. He couldn't move. He couldn't think. He couldn't _breathe_.

Somewhere above him, he could hear the one he feared still talking. Phrases like "let you live", "observe you", and "entertaining" reached his ears but held no meaning to him. The foot that had crushed his hand had long since been removed, but he could still feel the white-hot pain there, burning its way up to the slash on his arm and to his core. He just wanted it all to _stop, stop, stop, __**stop**_. Somewhere in him, though, he knew that with his luck, it probably wouldn't stop until he had been completely broken.

And he wasn't that far from breaking. He could feel it.

Suddenly, he was hoisted up from the ground and slammed against a hard surface, forcing him to focus on what was happening around him. He tried to gasp in pain, but found that he couldn't. He choked, raising his unhurt hand to his throat instinctively. There was a hand around his throat, pressing firmly into his windpipe. Donald cracked his eyes open and looked down, only to see Mortimer's face smirking darkly back at him.

"Well, I can see I made a mistake letting you live." The tall mouse said as Donald struggled for breath. Then the teen realized something else. Mortimer was taller than him. He was looking _down_ at the mouse. His feet couldn't reach the floor. "It is time to finish what I had started a decade ago."

His vision was starting to darken around the edges. He watched numbly through tears he didn't remember shedding as Mortimer raised the sword to deliver the finishing blow. From his higher perception, he could just make out the Prince in the background, still struggling against the knives pinning him to the wall.

_Heh. So this is how it ends._

_At least…at least I'll get to see Mother again._

…_Mother…_

He closed his eyes, letting the Prince's voice lull him into the darkness. He didn't understand the words anymore, but he could still feel the emotions in them. He wondered why the words sounded so scared and desperate.

"No! What do you think you're doing?! Unhand him! Put him _down_! Stop it! _Please_! Donald! _Donald!_"

Then everything went black.

_**To be continued…**_

* * *

**This chapter is considerably shorter, but I wanted to end it there. What can I say? I love cliffhangers. *bricked***

**Writing this chapter was…interesting. People who know me know that nothing good come out of being my favorite character, because if you do then you'll get hurt. A lot. But I had fun with this chapter. It was my try at writing fear, and I hope I did okay. Poor Donald. Maybe I should be nicer to him…**

**Is Donald going to live (well, of course he will, or the events in the movie will never happen)? And where does the Prince and his valet's relationship go from here?**

**~ruth~**


	8. iv - part 4

**Hooray for the next chapter!**

**Warning: If there are any Mortimer fans reading this, I suggest that you just skim the chapter. If you insist on reading, I apologize beforehand to anyone that might feel offended.**

**Without further ado, please enjoy the chapter.**

* * *

_**The Prince and His Valet**_

**iv. – part 4**

_Then everything went black._

For about five seconds.

Suddenly, he was on the floor again, and he could _breathe_. For the first few seconds, he did nothing else but gulp in mouthful after mouthful of air, trying to make up to his burning lungs the oxygen they were deprived of. He didn't even notice that someone was beside him until he felt the hand rubbing gentle circles into his back.

"There, just breathe. You're doing fine. You're going to be fine. Just breathe. Breathe."

He listened to the voice and did just that. When he finally managed to calm himself down and his heavy breaths trailed off into light coughs, he looked up to see who the voice belonged to.

"H-Horace?" Doggone it, his voice sounded raspier than usual. He wouldn't be surprised if Horace didn't even know what he was saying. To his surprise, the advisor nodded. "Don't say anything else, now. Wouldn't want you to damage your throat any further than you already have."

Donald just nodded. Horace helped support him as he leaned back against the hard surface he was held against just moments before, which now he saw was actually the pillar he had hid behind earlier. The elder man was still rubbing his shoulders soothingly, and Donald took the moment to see what was happening.

Mortimer was on the ground, several guards surrounding him with spears pointed his way. Captain Pete stood right in front of the traitor, sword pointing threateningly at his throat. If it weren't for his aching throat at the moment, Donald wanted to laugh at the irony that this was almost _exactly_ the position he and Mortimer were in only a few minutes ago (gosh, was it only minutes? It felt like an eternity). _Have a taste of your own medicine, why don't ya?_

Further from him, other guards were freeing the Prince from wall. As soon as the last knife was winched from its place, the teen tore from the circle of guards and rushed to where they were. He stopped in front of them, staring intently at Donald. The teenage duck knew that the Prince was only making sure he was all right with his own eyes, and settled for watching His Highness' face as the young royalty ran his eyes over him.

Which was pretty entertaining. Even with the trained poker face on, Donald could make out the relief and concern the older teen was trying so hard to hide in the twitches and subtle changes in muscle movement on his face. Then the short mouse's gaze landed to his left, and he visibly winced. The mallard was just about to wonder why when the last of his adrenalin finally wore off, and the white hot burning _pain_ from before came back to him at full force.

He let out a sound that was a cross somewhere between a gasp, a quack, and a hiss, and immediately his right hand flew to his left, wanting to relieve the pain at least a little. But soon he found himself not knowing _where_ to nurse. For one, his left hand was hanging limply and completely unresponsive (that _can't_ be a good sign) and _burned like fire_ whenever he actually tried to move it. But then, the slash wound on his upper left arm made sure he knew that any movement with his left arm was a _very _bad idea. He wouldn't be surprised if that gash was deep enough to see bone. It sure _felt_ like something was nibbling away at his skeletal structure. Or maybe it was just his broken ribs (which probably came from that crash against the pillar) aching. He didn't know, and at that moment, he didn't really care. He just wanted it all to _stop hurting_.

He shuddered in the wake of the onslaught of agony and whimpered. Something was held to his bill, and he couldn't find it in himself to protest as he opened his mouth and gulped down the liquid offered to him. And gagged.

"What was _that_?" He gasped. Then coughed for five seconds straight. He could feel Horace's disapproving look on him before the advisor even spoke. "I told you not to talk. That was just some wine to help with your pain. Now, here's some water for your throat."

Donald gratefully swallowed the warm water given to him, which brought sweet relief for his aching throat. Slowly, he could feel the alcohol taking its effect, with the unbearable pain gradually fading into a dull ache. It was then that he realized how absolutely _exhausted_ he was. He wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and not wake up for at least 12 hours. But any thoughts of sleep were eradicated when the sound of cold laughter began filling the room.

The reaction was immediate. He felt Horace's grip on him tighten, but was still gentle. He saw the Prince spin around to face the source of the laughter, arms spread almost protectively in front of the mallard. He would have been touched if he wasn't busy trying to suppress the irrational _fear_ that was again bubbling up his spine. He was going to have nightmares after this. He was positive.

The Captain was the one who finally interrupted the loud, humorless laughter with a growl. "What's so funny, ya no good scum?" The laughing ceased, but the reply that followed didn't ease Donald's fear any, "You think you all accomplished something by stopping me? You're all _wrong_! I was going to mercifully kill you all, because I know the lot of you would rather _die_ than serve under me! But now that you've stopped me, you have only signed yourselves up for a fate much worse! Mark my words, one day you will all be pawns in the hand of the _very Captain whom you have entrusted the safety of your palace to!_"

There was a dreadful silence as the occupants of the room let the words sink in, and all eyes inevitably focused on the one accused. The Captain himself was silent, still having his sword pointed at the traitor's throat. His head was slightly lowered, helmet obscuring the features on his face, making it impossible to tell what he was thinking. All waited to see what Captain Pete had to say.

To say that people were shocked when the Captain went from motionless to _plunging forward_ would have been an understatement.

Mortimer looked down at the blade in his chest, then up at the Captain himself. There was no pity or remorse on the large cat's face. Just disgust. "Don't you question my loyalty to the royal family, you scoundrel." He growled. Then he pulled the sword free and turned, didn't even bother to look back as the man he had stabbed coughed blood and fell sideways to the floor.

The silence that followed wasn't all that pleasant, either.

In the end, it was Horace who recovered fast enough from the shock to frown and give the Captain a stern look. "Really, Pete, was that necessary?" The Captain scowled as he wiped the blood off his blade with a rag he had taken out. "Shut your trap, Horsy. It was either that, or let him continue to terrorize your young ward there. I don't need another three years of waking up to nightmare induced screams."

Donald, for his part, just settled for being relieved that the man who had haunted his dreams for the past decade was finally gone (_it was over; doggone it, it was __**over**_), too tired to actually feel anything else. As he drifted off to sleep, he felt his body shift and himself placed in a position that reminded him of being carried on someone's back. He let the uneven ups and downs from his carrier's running lull him into the darkness like the rocking of a crib he didn't ever recall lying in.

"Hang in there, pal. You're going to be just fine. I swear on the crown's honor."

Funny how the last time he succumbed to darkness, it was the same voice that had accompanied him.

_**To be continued…**_

* * *

**Well there you have it! That's the end of Period iv! In the next period, we will finally enter into the events of the movie! Stay tuned!**

**I again apologize to any Mortimer fans reading this. I needed a way to show that while Pete had always been known to be ruthless, but still had the trust of generally the entire castle (not counting the soldiers he'd already corrupted). This just felt like something he would do that was in character, yet did not raise any doubt in the royal family's (and Horace and Donald's) trust in him. I believe that the royal family really did trust the captain, or Henry never would've let him become captain of the guards in the first place.**

**I really wanted to be historically accurate, but those that know their history would know that using alcohol to relieve pain is a method not used until the late 19****th**** century (this story takes place in the 14****th****, for those that don't know). But, Wikipedia didn't really give me much other choice. Let's just say that Horace discovered this method but never thought to make it public and used it only when needed. Because Horace is awesome like that.**

**And yes, neither Donald nor the Prince had drunk any wine at this point. They're still underage, and even if it's a different period, it's easy to imagine Henry and Horace being way too overprotective. XD**

**Poor Donald. Let's hope he has better luck in the future.**

**~ruth~**


	9. iv - bonus

**Hi, folks! What I have here is not the next chapter that I've promised before, but I can explain that.**

**I had been using my father's computer to write my chapters, but recently, he left for a business trip, taking his computer and unknowingly the next chapter of this story with him. The next chapter is finished, but now I can't post it because it's halfway across the world. :/**

**So, to compensate, I have written this bonus chapter. This bonus chapter was not planned and had not been in my original storyline, but I didn't want to make you all wait until my father gets back.**

**So with that said, enjoy! Think of it as a deleted scene that's been revived. XD**

* * *

_**The Prince and His Valet**_

**iv. – bonus**

The Prince stared idly into the blaze burning in the fireplace. In his hands was an item he had picked up from the ball room floor, when chaos overtook the place as he volunteered to carry an unconscious Donald away from the scene and to the doctor.

He shifted his eyes to the figure now lying on the bed, more bandages than he would've liked seeing covering the duck. It was the next day of the dreadful incident (or the next _night_, if you want to be specific), and there was still no sign of his valet's awakening, despite the Prince having spent the entire day by his bedside.

It wasn't that he was worried, as much Horace seemed to think so with the small smile he allowed himself when he thought the Prince wasn't looking. It was just that he wanted to know when his most usable subject was going to wake up so he'd continue to have someone to blame his pranks on and order around.

At the very least, that was what he had been telling himself.

Lightning flashed outside as thunder roared and more rain fell. The Prince took one glance out the window, cursed the English weather, and was glad that the entire storm was blocked outside the castle wall. Warm and dry by the fireplace, he pitied whoever that had no choice but to go out in this condition.

Suddenly there was a small groan, making the Prince snap his eyes back to the bed. He watched as the duck's eyes fluttered open, blinking a few time as if to make out where he was. He saw the shoulders tense up, then loosen again, obviously remembering the entire ordeal the night before. It would seem that Donald had come to the conclusion that he wasn't in any danger.

Good. The Prince really didn't feel like dealing with a terror-stricken Donald at the moment.

He noticed a second too late that the duck was feeling around his chest with his good hand, and he only noticed it when Donald began attempting to sit up in panic.

It took him all of two seconds to realize what it was that the other teen was searching for.

"It's on the drawer next to your bed."

The movement stopped as the one addressed quickly glanced to his right, and let out a sigh of relief when he saw the silver casted locket exactly where he was informed of.

"See it? Good. Now lie still before you hurt yourself even more."

His half order was met with a groan as the duck did just that, falling back into the bed. The Prince took the opportunity to move from his seat in front of the fireplace to right by his valet's bed. He smirked a little when he saw that Donald was stubbornly refusing to look at him. "Didn't know you cared that much about my present."

"Horace's present. And Benjamin's, if you really thought about it." Donald corrected almost instantly. "The only reason I accepted it from you, Your Highness."

"Sarcasm never fails you, you old duck." The Prince picked his words carefully, wanting to push the right buttons without setting the duck off too much. "And here I thought that the reason you accepted it is because it's the last thing you have to remember your mother."

He said it in a tone that was difficult to decipher if it was intended as an offending comment or not. The comment gave the desired effect, making Donald finally look at him in a heated glare.

"If you don't have anything better to do than to insult my mother, Your _Highness_, then may I strongly suggest that you-" The argument died on his beak when he finally saw what the Prince was holding in his hand.

While it was true that the Prince enjoyed putting his valet on edge, and he loved seeing the duck flustered and frantic because of his pranks, but he would never be able to get used to seeing that pure, overwhelming _fear_ that clouded his eyes when faced with the reminder of his childhood trauma. Even now, as Donald stared at the porcelain mask in his hands, the Prince wanted nothing more than to wipe that fear away and retrieve the usual fire and spunk that he had gotten so used to seeing in those blue eyes.

_Calm down._ He told himself. _You'll get to do it soon enough._

Both waited in silence, one never taking his eyes off the mask and the other never taking his eyes off the duck. Finally, Donald took a shallow breath and croaked, "_Why_ do you have that?"

"If you think I kept it to mock you whenever I felt like it, then you can sigh in relief. I'm not _that_ cruel." The Prince wasn't sure if he felt hurt or not when Donald visibly relaxed, however slightly. "The next thing I'm going to do, I reckoned that you would like, no, that you would _need_ to see me do it."

He ignored that duck's confused expression and turned towards the fireplace he had been facing a few moments ago. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, had one last argument in his head to convince himself of his plan, and opened his eyes in determination and _flung_.

The mask flew across the room and crashed in the flames, making the formerly calming embers grow into a burning inferno, the fire dancing wildly as it tried to wolf down the new source of energy. Its tongue reached out of the fireplace, as if looking for more to feed on (but it won't; the Prince had poured water on the lush carpet around it beforehand to prevent just that). The porcelain pieces crackled in the intense heat, headed with a small explosion that was loud enough to garner the attention of the people outside.

The boys watched the flame, neither, bound by pride, daring to look at each other with more than out the corner of their eyes as the hallways outside began to fill up with concerned voices and footsteps.

And then, out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Donald, though still staring ahead into the fire, mouth a small phrase.

_Thank you._

The Prince smirked and gave a small informal wave, knowing that the duck would have seen it.

And as Horace rushed into the room with the usual questions, neither of them said anything. The Prince just calmly walked out the room, leaving behind a perplexed tutor and a silent servant.

After all, none of it ever happened.

_**To be continued…**_

* * *

**There you go! I don't think it's my best work, but I like this chapter well enough.**

**This was written to compensate for the temporarily lost chapter and because I realized that I **totally forgot about the mask**. XDD**

**Also, it was my first try at writing in the Prince's POV. It was insanely difficult, for reasons that I can't really put my fingers on. I think it has to do with him being the uppity **tsundere** royalty that he is. XD**

**The next chapter should come along quickly. Be sure to tune in then! X3**

**~ruth~**


	10. v - part 1

**Well, here's the next part as promised! I'm sorry for the long wait!**

**In this chapter we finally venture into the contents of the movie. I try to be as true to the original movie as possible, but still had to make a few tweaks here and there to fit my story. Let's play a game! See if you can find the tweak to the movie I made besides the change of perspectives! XD**

**Without further ado, enjoy!**

* * *

_**The Prince and His Valet**_

**v. – part 1**

It had been a little bit more than two years since the Ball Room Incident (he had no idea who gave it this name), and most of Donald's wounds had already healed perfectly. The only one that bothered him was the dull ache whenever he flexed his left hand, but he supposed that he should be glad that it wasn't amputated from the start.

After he woke up in his room, both he and the Prince immediately came to the silent agreement that they were going to honor the promise made in the ball room and pretend that neither of them knew how much they cared for each other. This, much to Donald's chagrin, led to the Prince once again playing pranks on his behalf once he had healed enough to be framed, though the pranks themselves were much less intense than before.

So the rivalry was back. Donald didn't really have anything to complain about, though at times he did wish they didn't have to continue to pretend to hate each other. Then a cream pie would land itself on his head, and any form of regret would be swiped away as he angrily chased after the mouse responsible. Then he would inevitably run into Horace, who would assume it was Donald's fault, and the Prince would laugh his butt off in his private quarters.

Oh, joy.

At least he could get a kick out of watching the Prince struggling to survive the horror known as studies. Like he had been doing a few minutes ago, before His Highness decided it would be a good idea to blow pellets at his tail feathers. He really should have known better than to fight back, but he had had enough and thought maybe, just _maybe,_ he could get away with it this time. Then he had then been harshly reminded by Horace's yelp as to why he didn't really trust his luck anymore.

Now, he settled for sulking in his room. If His Highness was going to continue being a jerk, then he was going on strike until the Prince behaved otherwise. Or at least until the Prince called for his services again.

His resolve quickly evaporated when from the halls came a loud _CRASH_.

The mallard all but jumped up from his bed, rushing out to see what had caused the crash. As he ran, he cursed the distance between his room and the scene of the crash and hoped with all his might that it wasn't another attack. It had only been two years. His body wouldn't be able to take another beating it did two years ago, that much he knew.

When he finally turned the corner and reached the place, he gaped at the pieces of armors that now littered the floor. His eyes traveled further down the hall, and were just in time to catch a glimpse of the end of a mouse tail disappearing into the Prince's room.

_So that's what's going on_. He thought in irritation. If this was the Prince's idea of humor, then he was seriously considering getting His Highness a dictionary for his next birthday. He then sighed and began picking up the pieces of metal and setting them back to way it was.

He heard familiar footsteps behind when he got to the last armor.

"It wasn't me." He deadpanned, not even bothering to look back at the person. He heard a sigh and the beginnings of a lecture. "Honestly, Donald, when are you and the Prince going to actually get along?"

"Tell that to His Highness." The Duck muttered almost darkly. "I'm only doing what I'm told."

"You know it's infuriating."

"_Of course I know_!" Donald scowled and finally turned to point an accusing finger at the advisor. "_Especially_ when the third party that knows everything won't step up for the one being bullied!"

Immediately he regretted his action, because apparently pointing too hard could lead to strain on the hand as well. He should have thought it through before doing anything with his left hand. Now, he only let out a "wak!" in pain and quickly withdrew his hand to hold it protectively in his other hand, the helmet that he had tucked under his arm clattering to the ground.

As he nursed the aching hand, he was aware that Horace was slowly walking towards him. His plan to ignore the older man was quickly foiled when two larger hands reached out to take his left hand and began gently massaging it. "You know why I don't call on the young sire for the pranks he plays on you." He said quietly.

"Yeah," Donald replied sulkily, trying not to show how grateful he was for the pain relief. "I know. I just…it's so _exasperating_. Why can't His Highness be more like Henry?" He winced at the slip he made. But surprisingly, Horace didn't reprimand him for the "discourtesy", and instead chuckled, "You'd be surprised how much trouble His Majesty used to get me into."

_That_ got Donald's attention. "Really?" He asked, genuinely curious. The one that had raised him gave him a knowing smile. "I'd say he was about ten times worse than your royalty."

"No way!" Donald laughed, and soon Horace joined him. For about a full minute, that was all they did. But then slowly, Donald ceased laughing. Thinking about Henry made him sad, as the King never recovered from what they had assumed was a common cold the night of the Ball Room Incident. The seventeen-year-old knew that it was irrational, but he couldn't help but feel that it was somehow his fault that the King's health was the way it was now. If he'd been stronger, then maybe he wouldn't have let Mortimer's taunts get to him. Then maybe, without having to fuss over him and his injuries that night, someone would have noticed something, _anything_. Then maybe, if they had noticed sooner, Henry wouldn't be lying on his deathbed now. And Donald wouldn't be forced to watch the Prince pretend that he wasn't affected when the clenching of his fists by his father's bedside revealed how worried he really was. If _only_…

"There. Better?"

Donald gave himself a mental shake at his caretaker's voice. He muttered his thanks as he withdrew his no longer aching hand and turned to pick up and place the last helmet back to its rightful place. Horace watched him quietly before speaking again. "You just have to give it time. When the young sire takes the throne, he will change for the better. He'll have to, with his new responsibilities."

The mallard felt his breath catch in his throat when he realized the undertones of that statement.

"I hope that's still a long way off." He croaked quietly.

The advisor didn't reply, but they both knew that he agreed with the teen wholeheartedly.

_**To be continued…**_

* * *

**There we go! All finished!**

**I loved writing Donald and Horace's interaction here. I really believe that in that world they have more of a father-son relationship, and I'm a sucker for those. XD**

**Of course, Donald doesn't know about the switcheroo that had already happened. Will they ever find out?**

**~ruth~**


	11. v - part 2

**Hi people! I'm here to bring the next chapter! I've gained a few more readers since last chapter, and I want to thank **_**FrittzyCrazy, Mighty Agamemnon, **_**and **_**AlmDelis**_** for reviewing on the last chapter! X3**

**Also a small notice before this chapter, my family is going to be moving in the next few days, so I probably won't have the time to type up the next chapter as fast as I would like. I ask you all to bear with me and have a little patience! I'll work on it as soon as I have the time! ^_^**

**Without any further ado, enjoy!**

* * *

_**The Prince and His Valet**_

**v. – part 2**

They stood there for a few more seconds, each deep in their thoughts what was yet to come.

"Well," Horace finally broke the silence, "I'm off to see to it that the young sire does his royal duties. You're welcome to come along if you want."

"Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy!" Donald replied with genuine glee as he rubbed his hands together. He was up for anything that would put the Prince in torment. If Horace knew of the mallard's true intentions, he pretended not to notice.

As they entered the room after several failed attempts at knocking in hopes that His Highness would answer, Donald had to roll his eyes at the sight of the Prince standing proudly in front of the mirror. _Such a show-off._

And he had to try and stifle his laughter when His Highness stared in dread from under the scroll of royal duties. But at the same time, he felt that something was…off with the Prince. Maybe it was the way he actually apologized before untangling himself from the scroll, or maybe it was the fact that it wasn't really dread that Donald saw in the teenage mouse's eyes. It was more like…bewilderment?

Nah, maybe it was just his imagination.

But as the day wore on, he became more and more aware of the little things that just felt _wrong_ when the Prince performed them. For one thing, he never called Donald by name, which was absolutely bewildering because the last time he checked, His Highness _loved_ ordering him around, especially during his less-than-good moods when studying.

Another thing that struck the mallard as odd was how the older teen was actually _nervous_ when faced with falconry. He still remembered the two hour rant the Prince had thrown at him about how he enjoyed falconry the most out of all the royal duties because he was actually able to do _something_ aside from sitting behind a desk and listen to Horace ramble on about things he didn't want to know. Still, Donald got a good laugh out of it watching the falcon chase His Highness around the courtyard, so he didn't think too much of it.

Yet another mystery stared him in the face when the Prince's face _lit up_ at the mention of alchemy. For all he knew, his master _hated_ alchemy. "A waste of perfectly good material that could have been used on more productive activities, like molded into weapons, for instance." His Highness had once told him. So naturally, he was suspicious when the mouse before him began happily mixing the powders and elements told to him by Horace. He cast a worried look at Horace to see if he picked up on any of the changes in their prince, but was blatantly ignored. However, with the approving nod that the advisor gave the Prince when he eagerly showed him his work, the teenage duck knew that it was safe to assume that his caretaker had noticed, but wasn't alarmed. In fact, he seemed rather pleased by the Prince's change.

Well, if the Prince really _did_ change, then maybe he won't have to put up with all his pranks and attitude anymore-

He really should have seen it coming when the concoction the Prince brewed blew up in his face. Donald glared at the royal mouse through the soot falling in front of his vision. And the slightly older boy had the _nerve_ to look at him sheepishly and-

Wait just a second. When had His Highness _ever_ felt guilty or sheepish for putting the duck in misery? _Something screwy's going on here._

His suspicions and doubts were raised with every royal duty they went through. It was just…_wrong_. The Prince didn't act like that. The Prince didn't apologize for every mistake that he made. The Prince didn't shy away from the opportunity to show off his skills to the entire castle. The Prince didn't light up at the mention of food. The Prince didn't stare absentmindedly _into_ the palace (he usually stared out the window). The Prince didn't pass up any chance to get Donald in trouble (there were plenty). Everything the Prince did today was just something the Prince he knew _would. Not. Do._

At lunch, he tried to consult Horace about this, but the man just gave him a silent look that clearly said, "The Prince is changing for the better. Don't call on him for that." So Donald was left to quietly sulk from the sidelines as he watched His Highness continue doing things he wouldn't normally do.

It was the fencing lessons that finally pushed the duck into action.

While the Prince may act like he didn't care, Donald knew how much the older teen enjoyed fencing. It was during one of these lessons that the valet was able to see him genuinely smile. And he was good at it, too. They both were.

Both of them knew the significance of the sparring sessions. Even before the Ball Room Incident, they had found solace in the one thing that they could be equal in, where the Prince didn't need to resort to petty tricks and pranks to get the better of Donald, and Donald could fight back with as much vigor as he wanted without worrying about the status quo. It was the only time and place where they could put everything aside and let their own skills determine the victor. Sometimes one won, sometimes the other. You can never be sure until they poured everything into it without holding back. It was…soothing.

So now, to see the Prince fumbling with the sword in front him, Donald wasn't just annoyed and suspicious. No, he was _angry_. And right then and there, he knew what was wrong. He knew that the teen standing before him was _not the prince_. His Highness may be a jerk, but he would _never_ mock the ground where they both found equality. No, that wasn't the Prince pretending to forget how to hold a sword. That was _someone else_, a prince look-alike that had somehow gotten into the palace and replaced the one he knew. He didn't care that the boy in front of him looked and talked just like the prince. _It wasn't him._

He waited until Horace called stop for tea and the only ones felt on the training ground were him and a disheartened impostor.

"Your Highness." He called casually, picking up a sword as he stepped forward. "Care to spar with me?"

"Oh, hi…uh…Donald (this was the first time he called him by name today)." The Not-Prince smiled awkwardly at him. "I'll have to pass on that, I don't really feel up to it-"

"_En-garde!_" The duck shouted without letting the Prince (no, _not_ the Prince) finish and charged.

It was over within a second. The impostor was on the ground, looking up in wide-eyed terror at the blade pointed at his face.

"The prince…the _real_ prince, would have been able to block that and retaliate tenfold." Donald glared down at the trembling teen. "Who are you, and _what have you done to the Prince_?"

_**To be continued…**_

* * *

**Cliffhanger! Well, actually no, because we all know the answer to the last sentence of this chapter. XD**

**And yes, I am obsessed with the idea that Donald actually knew about the switch. It would explain a few things, I think, and I will point them out in the following chapters. And making it so that Donald was able to tell if the Prince was fake or not really says something about their relationship. X3**

**Also, the fact that I tweaked in the last chapter was that in the original short movie, when the Prince led Mickey into his room, they never closed the door. It was left wide open. But that wouldn't work with my plot, so I had them close the door instead.**

**Found out! What is the impostor going to do?**

**~ruth~**


	12. v - part 3

**Aaaaand here it is! The next chapter! :D**

**Many thanks to AmIDelis and Mighty Agamemnon for their reviews! X3**

**Everything I want to say about this chapter is at the end! Before that, enjoy!**

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_**The Prince and His Valet**_

**v. – part 3**

The story was hastily told, with Donald spending the next five minutes listening to the non-royal mouse in front of him stutter the entire ordeal. When he finished, the mallard put a hand to his head, "So what you're saying is, your name is Mickey Mouse, and the Prince had you brought to his room. After finding out that the two of you looked exactly alike, he decided it would be good it idea to trade places with you for a day. So right now, while you're here posing as His Highness, the Prince is out there. Posing as you."

"Uh…yeah. I think." The mouse that he now knew called Mickey replied uncertainly. "I…didn't really understand most of what you said, but…"

Donald stared at him for a couple of seconds, then his expression changed to one of anger and annoyance as he muttered, "Why that miserable, sorry excuse for a prince! When he gets back, I'm going to _murder_ him!"

"I'm sorry!" Mickey suddenly squeaked, covering his head with his arms. When Donald looked at him blankly, the mouse looked up uncertainly, "Uh…I mean, you aren't mad at me?"

"Why should I be mad at you? The way I see it, the Prince is the one that forced you into doing this." Donald replied, this time taking the time to clearly enunciate every word. Well, as clearly as he could, anyway. "And stop apologizing for everything. It's annoying."

The mouse opened his mouth, but then quickly shut it again. Instead he just said, "Oh." And then he smiled innocently at Donald. For the mallard, after all these years of putting up with the Prince's fake innocence, seeing a genuine good-hearted smile coming from that same face was…unsettling. He turned away from the mouse before any reaction could show on his face. "So am I the only besides you two that knows about this?"

"Yeah." Mickey replied. "And really, I'd appreciate it if it stayed that way. H-his royal Highness said he'd be back in a blink of an eye, and I don't want to cause any more trouble, so…"

Donald stared at him again, and the peasant boy shifted nervously under his gaze while giving him a pleading look. Again, seeing a rarely seen expression on a familiar face took the duck aback a little, but then he quickly shook his head and sighed. "Fine, I'll keep your secret. But that royal pain in the behind had better get back soon, or I swear, I'm going to-"

He never got to finish that sentence, because Mickey (who obviously didn't hear anything beyond "I'll keep your secret") launched himself at him and pulled him into a rib-crushing hug. "Oh, thank you, thank you, Sir Donald!" He said a bit too cheerfully for Donald's liking.

"It's fine." Donald wheezed as he finally pulled himself from the mouse's arms. "And just call me Donald. It'll raise questions if you don't. And _don't_ hug me again. The Prince doesn't go around hugging people."

The prince look-alike beamed at him and laughed half-sheepishly. Donald again found himself staring at this Prince's face doing everything it didn't usually do. Then he shook his head and sighed.

He needed to get used to this.

The day went on without much other incident. Mickey had meekly asked Donald if he could teach him how to properly use a sword. The teenage duck had complied, and they spent the rest of the afternoon in the courtyard, with the mouse awkwardly trying to use the blade in his hands, and Donald face-palming himself whenever the mouse lost balance on the most basic of stances. Eventually they switched the sword for a much lighter rapier, the one that Donald remembered using when he and the Prince first started the fencing lessons. Even so, Mickey still struggled, albeit with much less falling over.

But despite everything, Donald had to admit that Mickey was a fast learner. Within two hours, he was able to follow the fencing maneuvers almost perfectly. He still fumbled with the rapier, and his grip on the weapon could be better (Donald had to dodge a stray flying sword way too many times), but he was, in all, showing impressive progress.

When he told the not-Prince that, the teenage mouse again beamed at him, and the duck had to hold out both his hands and shake his head frantically to stop the enthusiastic teen from glomping him again. They finished the session with a small duel, which Donald won, but Mickey had landed enough hits to make him compliment the mouse.

The peasant boy laughed giddily as he skipped off into the palace with the rapier in his hand. Donald considered calling the mouse back to return the rapier, but figured that no one would miss it. Instead, he quickly placed everything back to where it was and followed the not-Prince to make sure he didn't do anything too out of character.

As the evening approached, the two teenage boys spent the time in the Prince's room, with Donald ambling around the room with his everyday duties and Mickey following him, curious about everything and anything. He asked questions, to which Donald either answered or cast him a look that said "You're asking about that? Seriously?" He also told Donald everything about himself. Within thirty minutes, the duck knew that the boy had grown up in London, and that he had a best friend named Goofy (which he didn't believe and laughed at until Mickey gave him a disheartened look). He also had a dog named Pluto (he had to wonder where this mere commoner who had near to none education found out about the name of a Roman god), who he had come into the palace to look for. Then he knew he was an orphan.

This caused the teenage valet to pause in the swipe he was performing while cleaning the table. Mickey didn't notice and continued to ramble on about the adventures (or misadventures, really) he had with Goofy and Pluto, all the while completely oblivious that Donald was now staring at him intently.

The duck hadn't considered that there was someone out there that shared his fate, and to find out one did was oddly touching. He wondered if Mickey grew up with the same troubles that he did, if he had ever questioned his own existence when witnessing a loving scene between a father and a son. He wondered at what age he lost his parents, and was he able to remember some of them (like him), or did he not recall his parents at all?

His musings were cut off as a maid knocked at the door and informed him that Horace needed to see him. He excused himself from the Prince look-alike (who waved good bye at him much too cheerfully for the real Prince, causing the duck to wince) and quickly exited into the hall.

"Where is he?" He asked the maid. The somber reply that came immediately caused a chill the run up his spine and the feeling of dread and foreboding to settle in his stomach.

"He's in His Majesty's private quarters, sir."

He shot the maid a fearful look and took off running as fast as he could, hoping against hope that the situation that would greet him would not be what he thought it would be.

_**To be continued…**_

* * *

**Cliffhanger? :D**

**Woo-hoo, Mickey finally appears! I had a lot of fun writing this chapter. I think I might have mellowed Micky out a bit too much, but I like the contrast it shows between Mickey and the Prince's personalities. Plus, the way it flusters Donald is too fun to pass up. XDD**

**And as promised, I'm going to share why I chose to use fencing/swordsmanship as the plot device. If anyone remembers, in the movie when the Prince (and Donald and Goofy) confronts Pete, the Prince grabbed a sword from a guard and used it. When Pete asked for a chance to explain himself, the Prince "sheathed" the sword even though he didn't have a sheath on him (him being in Mickey's clothes and all), but I took that as an action from someone who is very skilled and comfortable with a sword, leading me to believe that the Prince is indeed very good at fencing. And that raises up the question of "who does he spar with?", because we all know we love spars. Then I thought, well, why not Donald? And everything came together when I remembered earlier in the movie, when Horace went to get the "Prince" to see the dying King, Mickey was happily practicing (well, I assume he **_**was**_** practicing) a fencing maneuver while reciting the moves out loud. I would imagine that the real prince's skills would be good enough so that he wouldn't have to recite the moves to get the maneuvers correct. So why was Mickey reciting them? Because Mickey was taught them. Why was he taught? Because he knew next to nothing about fencing. Then why didn't everyone else find out about the "Prince's" sudden lack of skills? Because he was taught in secret. Who taught him in secret? Again, why not Donald? :D**

**Or maybe that's just my excuse to involve Donald in everything. XD**

**Wow, that was long! Hope that actually made sense to those who actually read it. XD**

**Things are not looking good for the king. How will Donald react?**

**~ruth~**


	13. v - part 4

**Woo-hoo! Yay for the next chapter! :D**

**Many thanks to AmIDelis for her review!**

**WARNING: This chapter…well, you'd be **(hopefully)** bawling by the time you finish this chapter if I managed to do this correctly. So get a box of tissues ready just in case that I actually pulled this off.**

**Anyways, read and enjoy!**

* * *

_**The Prince and His Valet**_

**v. – part 4**

When he entered Henry's bedroom, the already present feeling of foreboding only deepened, it that was at all possible. Donald gulped as he took in the sight before him. The royal physician was packing the bag he always carried with him. He could just make out the silhouette of Horace by the large bed in the dimly lit candlelight. The figure on the bed was still.

Absolutely still.

He closed the door behind him with a soft click, unintentionally announcing his arrival to the occupants of the room. Horace turned around, saw him at the door, and motioned for the duck to come forward.

Donald suppressed the urge to bolt from the room and reluctantly made his way to the bed. Before entering the room, he had been desperate to check if Henry was all right, but now that he was here, he just wanted to get as far away as possible, fueled by the naivety that maybe if he didn't face it, it wouldn't happen.

Already he could feel the tears forming in his eyes when his eyes finally lay upon the King, deathly pale and weak. Donald wanted to scream. This didn't look at all like the King he remembered. Henry was always so full of energy. So happy. Always ready to race his son and the young valet down the hall. Always there to ambush the boys around the corner. Always smiling down at the boys as he listened to their bickering and fights. Always cheering both parties on during a duel.

He seemed so out of place now, lying so still on the bed, with his breathing so shallow that it was almost as if it wasn't there. Donald found himself wishing it was another prank from the King (though those were few and far between in comparison to the Prince's), and that any minute now Henry would pop up from the bed and laugh as the teenage duck shrieked.

He glanced nervously at Horace, and was at first surprised at how collected and emotionless the advisor looked. But then he immediately gave himself a mental slap in the face. How could he ever think that Horace didn't care? He knew beyond a doubt that Horace was the one taking the King's decline in health the hardest, but being Horace, he didn't show any of that. He's the level-headed, always rational royal advisor to the royal family. Donald often found himself frustrated that he was surrounded by people who were so good at hiding their own feelings that he was afraid that one day he'd find that the person he thought he knew wasn't that person at all.

Maybe that was why Mickey attracted him. The peasant boy never hid his own feelings, and was always sincere. Compared to Horace and the Prince, Mickey was like a breath of fresh air.

Horace looked down at him and calmly said that he was going to summon the Prince. Donald was too busy trying to look at anything but the bed in front of him to understand what that implied.

After Horace left the room, the King finally spoke.

"Donald…" He called weakly. The duck finally stopped letting his eyes wander and ended up staring at the covers on the king. He didn't have the courage to face His Majesty yet.

"My, you've really grown, haven't you?" The King said with a soft chuckle as he patted Donald on the head.

_Just like he used to._

"I'm sorry that I haven't been able to see you more often." He continued softly. "And I'm sorry that I won't be able to see you continue to grow."

At this point, tears that had been pooling in Donald's eyes were finally threatening to spill over.

"I've always seen you as my other son, you know. I'd like to think that together with Horace, I've been able to set an example as a father figure for you to strive to." The King said with a smile. "And even though I honestly don't know how Quackmore would have treated his own child, I'd like to think that we've raised you into someone he can be proud of."

"You have." Donald replied with a choke. The tears were flowing freely now. Finally, he couldn't take it anymore and grabbed the King's hand in his own, and for the first time since he entered the room he looked straight into the elder man's face. "Please, Henry, don't talk like that! You can still get better! There's still hope! Don't talk like this is the last time we're ever going to talk to each other! You can't…_I_ can't…"

He trailed off as the King only looked back at him with a sad smile. The hand he had been holding shifted in an attempt to dry the duck's tears. "I'm sorry, Donald."

Donald cried all the harder and buried his face in the King's hand.

There was a period of silence as the King gently ran his fingers against the teen's face. Then he spoke again. "And I know Michael can be a handful, but you have to hang in there, alright? I'm leaving my son to you."

Suddenly, all sadness was washed away by a wave of _rage_. That sentence reminded Donald that Horace had gone out to summon the Prince, except the Prince _wasn't here._ He was out in the city, frolicking about as his own father lay dying. The Prince had gone out when the King needed him most, and now when the King was going to take his final breath, the Prince _wouldn't be here_.

He trembled in the wake of the anger and was slightly grateful that the King would probably assume his shaking to be from crying. Donald managed an "I will" as a response to the King's request before excusing himself. He then rushed for the door, his face still streamed with tears.

Once out of the room, he marched towards his room, angry at the Prince for leaving in the first place and angry at everyone else in the palace for not noticing that the Prince was gone. Mostly, he was angry at himself for not being able to do a doggone thing.

In the halls, he crossed path with Horace and Mickey, and in the heat of the moment, he threw Mickey one of his most hostile glares. Seeing the mouse reminded him again of the situation at hand and it _made. Him. Mad._

He ignored Mickey's frightened flinch and Horace's questioning glance and marched right past them.

Finally, he made it to his room and proceeded to flop down on the bed and grab his pillow so he could scream and cry into it. He hated how he was so powerless and useless to the situation at hand and how _pathetic_ he looked now.

"When he gets back," he grounded out through sobbing breaths. "I am going to _murder_ him."

_**To be continued…**_

* * *

**Well. Tissues, anyone? OwO**

**I 'm actually not so sure about this chapter. I hardly ever cry over literature anymore (though it's a completely different story when it comes to movies) so I'm not sure if this was enough to make someone sad? Have feels even? I don't know…I hope I managed to make at least one of you emotional. XD**

**I really liked writing Donald's relationship with Henry, and even though he didn't appear much in both the movie and my story, I hope I was able to show that he was a very much loved king during his reign. OwO**

**I…don't have a lead up sentence for the next chapter. Guess we'll have to wait and see, huh? XD**

**~ruth~**


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